Reddened Paw Prints
by Simply-Cath
Summary: Red John decides to even the playing field.


TITLE: Reddened Paw Prints

AUTHOR: Simply-Cath

DISCLAIMER: Don't own the characters, using them without permission, not making money off this.  
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask for, and receive, my permission before posting this elsewhere.  
RATING: T

CONTENT: Implied violence, dark themes

SPOILERS: None

SUMMARY: Red John decides to even the playing field.

Reddened Paw Prints

By: Simply-Cath

The rhythmic, constant tapping was interrupted by a soft snore.

Bemused, Patrick glanced over to the source. Wayne Rigsby was hunched over his desk in a position that could be best described as uncomfortable. His suit jacket strained at the shoulders as the big man used his forearms as pillows. Even from the couch, Patrick could see the dark circles under the agent's eyes. His sleep was untroubled. His lips quirked into a wider smile.

"Kid running you ragged?" Cho asked, not looking up from his file.

Rigbsy sat up groggily, batting at the file that clung to his cheek like a cat grooming itself. "No," he murmured, shaking his head. "No, Ben is fine." Rigsby ran a hand through his hair. "It's Nemo."

"Nemo?" Van Pelt echoed, arching an eyebrow.

Rigsby sighed heavily. "I was taking Ben back to Sarah's place," Rigsby began. "I was heading down the highway. There was this puppy on the shoulder. So I pulled over and put him into the car."

This time it was Lisbon who spoke up. "You adopted a puppy?"

Rigby was abashed. "I couldn't just leave him there."

"That's sweet," Van Pelt smiled. "But why Nemo?"

"It's the first thing Ben said when he saw him." Rigsby admitted. "And it ... suits him I guess. Little one wandering around alone, trying to find home."

"A puppy and a baby?" Jane murmured. "You're a brave man, Rigsby."

"No, just an exhausted one. Compared to the puppy, Ben's-" Rigsby was about to say something else, but was interrupted by his watch beeping. He stood up. "Boss, I need to head to Sarah's place and-"

"Go ahead," Lisbon nodded. "The paperwork can wait till morning."

"Thanks, Boss." Rigsby was out the door before he finished the sentence, his heavy coat half on.

(*)

Sometime later, Rigsby pulled up to Sarah's place, scrubbing a hand over his face as he mentally planned out the next couple of days. The baby would sleep on the way home, the puppy would be fine hanging out in the back seat. Work had been quiet so far, mostly catching up on paperwork and putting the finishing touches on some files that had been lingering. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, glancing up at the dark clouds that had gathered in the sky. Rain, wonderful.

He knocked on the door, his brow rising in surprise when he got no response. Rigsby checked his watch. Satisfied that he had the right time, he knocked again. Figuring the baby was asleep, Wayne pulled out his keys and slid it into the lock, turning the latch as quietly as he could.

The first thing he heard as a soft bark and it drew his gaze downward. Wayne crouched as the puppy came awkwardly bounding over, his ears crossed at the top of his head.

That was when Wayne saw the bloody paw prints.

Wayne shot to his feet.

He saw the face on the wall.

Lisbon held up her hand for silence as she answered her phone. "Lisbon."

"Boss? Boss, I'm at Sarah's place."

"Rigsby," Lisbon stepped away from the group. She had never heard his voice shake this badly. "Rigsby, what's wrong?"

"Boss..." It seemed to take forever before he spoke again. "Boss you ... you need to get down here, Boss."

"Why?" Lisbon felt dread pooling in the pit of her stomach, binding it up into hundreds of knots. She cleared her throat, trying to force some professional detachment into her voice. She was aware of the eyes of her team on her, but forced herself to push that aside. "Rigsby, I need you to answer me right now."

"I haven't touched anything, Boss. You need to get down here. Y-you need to get to the crime scene."

(*)

For the first time in his life, Patrick Jane only spared a moment to look at Red John's signature. Usually he lingered, drinking it in, committing the details to memory as he tried to figure out where this crime fit into the puzzle. This time, Patrick stared just long enough to ensure that this was the real deal, though it didn't much matter. Red John crime scenes always _felt_ different, the evil hung in the air after like a cheap perfume. Red John crimes were different.

Especially this one.

Patrick wove his way through the CBI team, through the local cops and forensic analysts and medical examiners as if they weren't there. Rigsby was sitting on the window sill, a small bundle in his lap. For its part, the puppy was asleep, untroubled by the commotion. German Shepherd, Jane realized, small, very small, barely old enough to be apart from its mother. He crouched down in front of Rigsby, dismayed by what he saw. Rigsby's eyes were wide, uncomprehending, like a man waking up from a nightmare only to find that it had come true. His mind was struggling to process with what it had just seen, to recover from the shock and get back into any semblance of order. When their eyes met, Patrick felt a rush of sympathy so strong it nearly knocked the breath from his chest. So strong that it almost eclipsed the anger. Almost. Patrick swallowed hard, taking a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Rigsby... Wayne."

"I didn't do..." Rigsby's voice was quiet. "They didn't... I didn't..." All at once, Rigsby straightened up, looking around the room at the various law enforcement agents. "Statement. I need to give me statement, I'm the only... I'm a witness, aren't I?"

"Wayne," Lisbon put a hand on her agent's shoulder. "That can wait."

"No," Wayne took a deep breath. "No, it can't. I can do this. It's still fresh I can-"

"Lisbon," Jane stood up and leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Let him."

"Jane, he's in shock."

"Yes and right now he needs to anchor himself, to focus on something. Let him do his job." Without waiting for a response, Jane returned to Rigsby's side; the big agent seemed totally unaware that they'd just been talking about him. "Rigsby." He said softly, but firmly. The puppy wriggled a little, pulling free from the crook of Wayne's arm. It whimpered softly and sniffed Patrick's hand. "He's a nice dog, Rigsby," Jane said, running his fingers through the dog's fur, ignoring the caked on blood.

"Yeah." Rigsby nodded. "He is. He's a good dog."

"Rigsby, I need you to do me a favor. Look at me, Wayne. It's very important. I need you to match your breathing with mine. Breathe just like I'm doing right now. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that's good. That's good. Look into my eyes and keep breathing the way I'm breathing. In through the nose and out through the mouth. In, then out. In, then out. Good. In, then out." Patrick rested his hand on the other man's knee. "Keep breathing. Now I need you to tell me everything you know."

The statement was similar to those he'd heard so many times before, to the one he himself had given to the police. It was detailed, but it wasn't detailed enough. Patrick added the statement to his memory palace. He would parce through Wayne's words one at a time, to see if there was anything new he could add to his knowledge of Red John, anything bit of minutuae that he could use to bring himself closer to his revenge.

By the time he finished, speaking, Rigsby's posture had straightened. His voice lost the quiver, his eyes seemed more focused.

Until they wheeled out the bodies.

They were covered of course, both safely hidden away inside black body bags, but Rigsby knew what was in them. He knew why one of the bags was just so damn small. His eyes glazed over again. "Boss," he said, his voice thin and reedy, as if someone had their hand wrapped around his throat. "Boss, I'm not coming in tomorrow."

Lisbon shifted herself, using her body as a physical barrier to block Rigsby's gaze as much as possible. It was such an odd statement that a few of the detectives looked over at him in surprise; but Lisbon knew that Rigsby was clutching at straws, doing what he could to right himself. "I know," she said, "take all the time you need."

"I'll do that, Boss."

(*)

The days passed by in a blur. The funeral was a small, tragic affair; Rigsby did not say a word during the service or afterwards. He'd simply watched as mother and son were placed in the ground and covered with earth. He had managed to slip away from the small luncheon before anyone could get close to him.

And the work went on. Forensics reports trickled in, the media had a field day, bereaved family members demanded answers. Patrick took the information to his loft and added it to his investigation. Currently Patrick sat on his couch, nursing a cup of tea.

"Has there been any word?" Cho asked.

"No." Van Pelt shook her head. "He turned off his cellphone. Landlord says he hasn't been back to his apartment in days."

"But you've been keeping track of him." Jane looked over.

Van Pelt averted her eyes. "He's not a suspect. He was here with us the entire time."

"Still, he's a friend. You have your ways of keeping tabs on him."

"He's renting a motel room in town." Van Pelt sighed heavily. "I wouldn't know what to say if he did answer. But he shouldn't be alone right now."

"He needs more time." Cho said. He picked up a pen with a white-knuckled grip and started to work.

"How much more? It's been over a week-"

"He's going to take as much time as he needs," Lisbon came out of her office. "Everyone deals with this in their own way. We can't rush him."

"All I'm saying," the voice came from down the hall. Lisbon recognized it was the head of another team, Condino. The man was walking past the office, apparently unaware of the volume of his voice. "It just seems a little off to me. He doesn't even try to resuscitate? First thing he does is call Lisbon. What kind of-?"

Cho slammed his pen down with enough force to crack the plastic tube and stormed out the door, his hands balled into fists.

(*)

Patrick excused himself and headed home. He knew he would hear the details of Cho's suspension later. At the moment he could not handle the stifling air in the CBI office. The gossip, the stares, it was stirring up far too many familiar feelings in him. He closed the door behind himself and locked it securely. Patrick removed his jacket and went over to the stove, turning on the kettle. Outside he could hear the rain begin, a strong, steady beating against his windows. As he waited for the water to boil, Patrick slipped off his shoes and he soon found himself pacing. He had gleaned the name of the motel Rigsby was staying at. It wasn't far. He fully expected Rigsby not to answer, but that was nothing a couple of bobby pins couldn't solve. The only question was whether he wanted to wait until Rigsby was there or to break in when he wasn't, forcing a conversation. He was virtually certain that Rigsby would not shoot him on sight.

There was a knock at the door just as the kettle began to scream. Jane chose to attend to the latter and turned off the stove, switching the kettle to one of the cold elements. No further knock followed, which indicated that this was not an emergency or a sales visit or a lost delivery boy. Jane looked through the peephole and stepped back, throwing the door open. "Rigsby." He stepped to the side, throwing the door open wider.

Jane shut the door and leaned against it. The first thing that caught his eye was the royal blue leash, the puppy on the end of it, shaking itself dry from the intense rain. Then he turned his attention to Rigsby, watched the way he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up on the hat rack, the way he eased out of his sodden dress shoes and placed them exactly next to Patrick's. The man's movements were neither comfortable nor awkward. He was simply mimicking the tidyness of Patrick's surroundings. If things had been messy, Patrick had no doubt that Rigsby would have simply dropped everything on the floor.

When it was done, Rigsby turned to face Jane, his head cocked to the side. A soldier waiting for commands.

"You need a shower." Patrick said. "You're soaked through." Jane held out his hand, his eyes flicking down to the leash.

Rigsby recoiled from the outstretched fingers, like a child trying to protect his toy.

"We're not going anywhere. He's not going anyhwere." Jane spoke softly. "It's okay."

They stood frozen for close to a minute, Patrick offering and Rigsby recoiling until Nemo walked over to Patrick, his tail wagging as he sniffed the blond. "See? He likes me."

The words seemed to snap Rigsby out of his daze and he nodded, handing the leash over.

Once Rigsby disappeared into the washroom and he heard the door lock, Patrick looked down at the dog, petting his forehead. "All right," he said brightly. "Let's see if we can find something for you to eat." He suspected that it would help Rigsby relax if he saw that the puppy was in good hands. Jane went into his kitchen and began to skim some of the containers in his fridge, finally settling on the take-out he'd had last night. He slipped the contents into a bowl, then filled up another with water. Satisfied the dog was eating, Patrick grabbed a decorative pillow from the couch and set it on the ground.

Just as Patrick finished steeping the tea, Rigsby stepped out.

"I don't have anything in your size."

"'s'okay," Rigsby's voice was hoarse from disuse. "Coat got the worst of it." He took the cup of tea from Patrick and then followed the blond into the living room, taking a seat on the couch when Patrick instructed him to. Wayne's eyes darted around for a few moments, his posture only relaxing when he saw Nemo asleep on the pillow by Patrick's side. "Red John's a dog lover. Who knew?"

"Possibly." Patrick inclined his head, choosing to let Rigsby dictate the course of the conversation. Though he had to admit that he did not expect them to get into this territory so quickly. "It could be that the dog was no threat. Possibly sleeping."

"He wouldn't have been sleeping." Rigsby shuddered. "Not through that. And he sleeps in a crate. He wasn't in the crate. He came running up to me. His paws were stained-" Wayne's voice choked and he took a long sip of tea to try and calm himself.

"He's taunting us. Red John likes to leave witnesses who have no possible way to identify him. He wants an audience for his work, especially one that can't provide any information about him." Jane was not surprised by Rigby's newfound attachment to the puppy; intensely traumatic experiences could forge powerful bonds.

Rigsby was silent for a long time, staring at the contents of his teacup as though they held the mysteries of the universe. Every so often, his gaze traveled upwards, following the trail of steam before dropping down again. "Have there been any new developments in the case?"

"No." Jane replied. "Red John was his usual, meticulous self."

"The team?"

"Struggling." Jane admitted, shrugging one shoulder. "Cho is on suspension. He made an admirable attempt to put his fist through Condino's face. Broke his nose at the very least. I didn't stick around for the aftermath."

"Yeah. That sounds like Cho." One corner of Rigsby's mouth quirked up into a smile, but it faded just as quickly as it appeared. "I just haven't..."

"If anyone in the world understands what you're going through, it's me. You have nothing to explain."

Rigsby looked down into his teacup again, his fingers curling around the delicate chinaware more tightly. "Why? Why me? Why THEM? We weren't even investigating one of his cases. I don't think I've even-"

"I can't answer that." Patrick said softly. "I wish I could. Wayne-"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Wayne seemed to deflate, looking over to the sleeping puppy. 'So am I."

Patrick finished his tea in silence. He headed into the kitchen, leaving Rigsby where he was.

"I understood, you know?"

Patrick did not look over. "Understood?"

"Why you're after him. Why you're doing what you're doing. Of all the motives for killing someone, I think revenge is the one I can understand the most." Rigsby stood and began to pace slowly. "Where I grew up... the way I grew up... someone was always needed payback." Wayne stopped and looked Patrick in the eye. "I want payback."

"Rigsby," for the first time in a long while, Patrick had to struggle for the right words. "The road I'm on doesn't lead anywhere good. I'm going to kill Red John. This goes beyond payback."

"So what am I supposed to do, Jane? Go back to work, start punching the clock and pretend nothing happened? He took my family from me. Sarah and I weren't even together anymore. She had nothing to do with me. With this. And Ben..." Rigsby squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't just forget them and move on, Jane. I won't. This road you're on? You're not on it alone anymore."

"No."

Rigsby blinked, then frowned. "Excuse me?"

"No." Patrick's eyes lit up with understanding and he closed the distance between himself and Rigsby. "Don't you see? This is exactly what Red John wants. Red John has this vast network, this group of followers at his every beck and call, people willing to kill and die for him at the drop of a hat."

"So what?"

"I've been working alone this whole time. One man against his army. He has his disciples, his apprentices..."

"And he wants you to have an apprentice of your own." Rigsby concluded.

"Exactly. If you go down this road, he wins."

"If I go down this road, he dies."

Jane looked deep into Rigsby's eyes. He looked past the rings of exhaustion, past the shock and grief and sadness. He saw the shimmering rage underneath, he saw the desire for revenge that was probably the only thing that kept him from eating his gun. "I won't give him what he wants. That's what he's talked about this whole time. He's always said he's seen himself in me, the potential. He's offered up the olive branch before. He's trying to get me-"

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU!" Rigsby thundered. "NOT ANYMORE!"

The words seemed to deflate the larger man and Rigsby fell back into his seat, exhausted. "He took them from me. He took them from me and I'm going to kill him. You're either going to be a part of that or you're not. We can either work together or I'm going out on my own. It's up to you."

"I need some time." Patrick said after a moment. "You're welcome to stay the night. It seems Nemo has already made himself comfortable."

The puppy was stretched out on the pillow, sleeping peacefully.

(*)

The next morning, Patrick was awakened by the scent of breakfast. Tea and eggs, maybe French toast. Patrick dressed quickly and stepped into the kitchen. Two cups of tea were on the counter top, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and a small stack of pancakes. "You can cook."

Rigsby shrugged one shoulder. "It was cook or starve."

The two men ate in silence until Patrick received a text. "That's Lisbon."

"There's a case." Rigsby took their empty plates and put them in the sink. He looked over at the other man. "Are we going to work, Patrick?"

Patrick Jane could read people better than most, but a lot of the time, he still relied on gut instinct. And right now his instinct was to send Rigsby and his dog back to that motel room until he drank or cried or did whatever was necessary to make him forget about revenge. He loathed the idea of sending another person down this path of revenge. Lisbon did her best to understand, but deep down, he knew she didn't realize how far he was willing to go. She still thought he would whisk Red John into a courtroom in handcuffs, let the justice system work. Standing in front of him right now was a man who, if Jane played his cards right, would help him chase Red John down into the darkest depths of hell. Every fiber of his being told him to keep Wayne Rigsby as far from this as possible. Rigsby was dangerously broken right now, a man whose sole reason to get out of bed was a puppy. Wayne could recover from this and lead a normal life. He didn't have to be consumed by revenge. A good man would encourage Rigsby to grieve and move on. A better man would have been able to do it.

Patrick nodded curtly. "Let's go to work, Wayne."

THE END

This idea has been kicking around my head for a while.

Hope you enjoyed,

Cath


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